


As We Walk in Fields of Gold

by nyxocity



Series: Jealous Sky Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Established Relationship, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Multi, Polyamory, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: Just a year in the life of your average incestuous three-way relationship. Sam and Jess rent an apartment together while Dean continues to hunt, coming home to see them every couple weeks. It's sweet and it's wonderful, and it works--until unforeseen tragedy strikes, testing Dean most of all.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: Jealous Sky Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128539
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing she does is buy salt. Lots of it.  
  
Glistening white grains, thick white painted across the windows sills and in front of her bedroom door every night. It becomes a ritual for her and Sam, each of them taking a can starting on separate sides of the room until they meet in the middle. And then he puts his hands on her face, nearly covering everything except for her mouth and pulls her up, kisses her slow and deep.  
  
“You miss him?” she whispers, when she can breathe.  
  
He rests his forehead against hers, strokes his thumbs across her cheeks and nods, a single move of his head and she knows the words get stuck.  
  
“Me, too,” she says.  
  
“He’ll be back,” Sam says, and it’s more than a placation, or a hope. It’s fact, sure and strong.  
  
-  
  
The apartment is in a small building that looks like a refugee hotel from the 1960’s, all weird angles to the roof, aqua blue siding with pink trim. There are faded flamingos scrolled into the wall paper of the front office, and there’s a tiny old man with a face shaped like an apple, pink cheeks and a mustache two sizes too big for him. A tiny transistor radio wheedles tinny sound into the heated air, strains of the Beach Boys and summertime winding up.  
  
The man chatters at them cheerfully, quick movements belying the gray in his receding hairline, tells them all about the history of the place and how someone famous they’ve never heard of stayed here once. He’s proud of the dubious ambiance of the place, and Jess likes him immediately.  
  
He leads them through the iron gate into the courtyard. There’s a pool, deep and aquamarine, sunk deep into the cement at the center, flanked on three sides by two story buildings, and it _is_ an old hotel. Rows of doors stretch behind the aluminum railings, each of them with a number on it, each number crowned by a tiny, pink, plastic flamingo. The apartment is on the second floor, set back in the corner past the main square walkway. It rests under the shadow of the roof where two building corners meet around the courtyard, and the man leads them up the stairway, past doors seven and eight.  
  
Sam holds her hand the whole way there, palm warm and pressed to hers and it feels like _beginning_.  
  
The pink flamingo on their door is missing a leg, tiny white wound, but the number nine is still in one piece.  
  
In the kitchen there’s old linoleum counter tops and an ancient, mammoth refrigerator. The wall paper depicts dancing flamingos in straw hats, and she smiles at Sam, when he ducks his head to hide a chuckle.  
  
“That’s um… the wall paper’s great,” he says, and Jess wants to kick him. Shoots him a warning look that dissolves into a grin as he meets her eyes, and she has to hide her face behind one hand.  
  
“I got it on special, place down the beach a few years back,” the old man says. “They were practically giving it away.”  
  
“That’s unbelievable,” Sam deadpans.  
  
This time, she _does_ kick him.  
  
-  
  
The day they move in, Tommy and Chris help, the four of them moving boxes and furniture up the narrow railings, sweat and cursing and laughter. The couch is too wide and they end up stuffing it through the door, Tommy and Sam pushing with their legs, backs set against it. Stretch and strain and it finally goes through with a sudden pop, leaves them both on their asses, and Chris makes fun of them while Jess opens them a beer.  
  
They order pizza and drink more beer, sitting on boxes and counter tops in the kitchen, trading stories and jokes. It’s late when Tommy and Chris finally leave, tipsy and hugging Jess clumsily goodbye. She shuts the door behind them and falls into Sam’s arms and hugs him tight.  
  
“It’s ours,” she says, kisses him, holds him and stands in the warm circle of his arms for a moment.  
  
Ten minutes later, they’re sitting side by side on the couch (still adrift in a sea of boxes), each with a house phone pressed to their ear, telling Dean all about it.  
  
-  
  
They spend the first day placing charms and detailing protective symbols into every nook and cranny. Slowly, the rest of the house comes together, melodic waltz of tiny steps. The couch finds a home against the far living room wall, an anchor for the coffee table and end tables. Light oak wood offset by dark picture frames hung on the walls, black and white vintage movie posters; “The Invisible Man” over the phone table, “The Mummy” on the short wall where the dining room doorway interrupts and abbreviates it and the pair of “Frankenstein” and “Dracula” hung above the couch itself. Pots and pans living with dishes, stacked and crouching on every shelf of the kitchen, tiny pantry shoved full to overflowing with boxes and cans. Fluffy blue towels hanging in the bathroom, toothbrush holder with three slots, two of them filled; one purple, one green. Striped comforter on the bed and plain sheets beneath, four fluffy pillows stacked in rows two by two.  
  
They’re all her things. Sam travels light, and if she didn’t know him like she does now, she’d wonder about how few things he actually owns. It was a step to get him to leave a toothbrush out at her old place, and he’s still fastidious; never a stray hair in the sink or tub.  
  
She doesn’t really mind. _He’s_ here.  
  
Right now, Sam’s on the couch reading a book, pencil caught between his lips as he frowns at the pages in concentration. Papers with neat lines of notes marching across them are stacked in piles all around him – on the couch, the coffee table, even on the floor around his feet --encircling him completely. The laptop sits just outside the ringed barrier, open on the coffee table, and occasionally he stops reading long enough to type something in on the keyboard.  
  
She’s kneeling on the wooden tiled floor next to the dining room window, fingers dug deep into potting soil as she makes a space to deposit seeds.  
  
There’s a line of light that creeps across the window sill in here in early morning, growing taller as the hours pass and it slips across the floor. There are already two clay pots on the windowsill (each with a protective symbol inked into their underside), leaves sprouting, soil damp.  
  
Sam’s got the college radio station on, and she taps her foot in time to the jamming guitar riff as she pats dirt on top of the seeds she’s just secreted.  
  
 _”Andrew's a starfighter pilot He knows all the girls in the world “_  
  
She’s just getting to her feet, settling the pot in its new place on the windowsill, when someone knocks on the door.  
  
“I’ll get it,” she says, as if Sam could even move at this point, laptop balanced on one long leg, book open and perched precariously on the other, pencil in hand. She dusts her hands on her jeans and brushes them clean of dirt, hurries down the hall.  
  
Dean’s standing there when she opens the door, twelve-pack of beer in one hand, bottle of red wine in the other, and he almost drops them both when Jess shrieks, throws herself on him in a tight hug. He stands there for a split second, enduring with dignity, startled half-smile on his face, and then when Sam appears behind her, he gives in, tilts his head against her neck just a little. Just enough.  
  
“I heard there was a house warming party,” he says, and she lets go of him. He’s grinning now, and Sam’s grinning back, and the two of them don’t hug, but the second the door closes, the beer and the wine are on the floor and Sam’s shoving Dean up against the wall, kissing him hard.  
  
They stumble into the bedroom, Sam in Dean’s arms and Jess clinging to his back as they plow headlong past the door jamb and miss the bed completely, Dean shoving Sam into the far wall, Jess slamming into them both.  
  
Dean laughs, turns his head to kiss her mouth—and catches sight of the bed. Stops dead.  
  
She’s still got the same double bed she’s always had, and it’s never really been big enough for two normal sized people, let alone for her and Sam.  
  
Dean takes one look at it and declares, “We’re gonna need a bigger bed.”  
  
They all sleep together in it that night, piled tight, tangled splay of limbs, all arms and hands and legs and breath and skin. The sheets smell like sweat and sex between heartbeats pressed together the darkness, soft and steady.  
  
When Jess gets up in the middle of the night to go pee, there’s a red toothbrush in the usually-empty hole in the toothbrush holder. It’s nestled between the purple and green ones, their graceful necks all touching, and it makes her smile to see it.  
  
*  
  
“Man,” Dean says, cracking open a beer and giving a cursory glance around the room. “You weren’t kidding about the flamingos.”  
  
“We stayed in worse hotels,” Sam shrugs.  
  
“Yeah, but dude, you gotta _live_ here.”  
  
Sam turns toward Dean, smirking. “And if we got magic fingers installed in the bed?”  
  
“That’s totally different!” Dean declares, setting his beer down hard. “Magic Fingers aren’t tacky.”  
  
“So you’re telling me a vibrating bed isn’t nearly as tacky as a pink plastic bird?”  
  
“You lost this argument when you used the word “pink-plastic” in that sentence,” Dean says.  
  
“That’s _two words_ , Dean.”  
  
“Whatever. Loser.”  
  
Sam just sighs and shakes his head in a way that declares Dean utterly hopeless.  
  
Dean’s quiet for a few minutes, sipping his beer and sitting completely still, which is weird enough all by itself, much less the quiet that’s accompanying it. He looks up at Sam, strangely hesitant for a second, then hopeful and earnest.  
  
“You really think we could get those installed?”  
  
*  
  
Sam’s spread out with his books all over the dining room table as Jess snips tiny sprigs of oregano from one of the older plants on the windowsill. The oregano was peeking above the ground when she bought it, a baby planter, and it’s grown up hearty over the few weeks they’ve lived here. She balances the pasta spoon in one hand and tries to hold the plant with the other, using the scissors one-handed.  
  
Dean comes up behind her, reaches an arm around her (soft brush of skin against her side, and her pulse revs) and grabs the pot. He pulls it around her and holds it and she turns, smiles at him as she snips another leaf free.  
  
“What is this, anyway?” he asks, frowning down at it.  
  
“Oregano.”  
  
Sam looks up from his book. “Oregano is good for forgetting spells—“  
  
Jess hits him in the head with her pasta spoon.  
  
“Yeah, in case you hadn’t noticed, genius, we’re not witches.” He looks back at Jess. “You keep right on cooking with that Oregano. You ought to get some Tarragon, too.”  
  
She stops in mid-slice, scissors hovering, and Dean blinks at the way she’s looking at him. He turns to enlist help from Sam, but then Dean’s face just curls in confusion, and Jess imagines Sam’s face looks a lot like hers.  
  
“What?” Dean asks. “I like _food_ , okay?”  
  
Jess glances over and she thinks Sam’s bangs have devoured his eyebrows—she can’t even see them they’re raised so high.  
  
“Tell you what,” Jess says, laying the scissors down and closing her  
hand around the oregano leaves. “After dinner, we’ll go to the gardening section at Wal-Mart and get some Tarragon seeds.”  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asks, half-smile tugging his mouth.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
*  
  
The aisles in the garden section are cluttered with clusters of people, moms and dads with their toddlers and elementary school kids. Sam pushes the cart and Jess walks to the side at the end, her hand trailing across the plastic edge. Dean shuffles along beside them, disinterested since they found the seeds.  
  
A five-year-old runs by them in a red t-shirt, mouth open in a squeal, his toddler brother wobbling after him. Dean turns his head and watches them pass and Jess is surprised when he smiles.  
  
“Hey, Jess,” Sam, says, slowing the cart, and she can hear the smile spread through his voice. “Check this out.”  
  
She moves up beside him, shoulders touching as she leans in over the bin he’s looking at.  
  
It’s filled with pink plastic flamingos in a variety of positions, each one with a tiny prong stuck to one of its feet.  
  
“Wouldn’t these look great in the pots?”  
  
“Instead of having them on our lawn—“  
  
“We can have them in our garden.”  
  
“Oh, my God, they’re perfect, Sam,” she says, picking one up between her thumb and forefinger. “And this one looks like—“  
  
“The one on the wallpaper with the knock-knees and the crossed wings?”  
  
Jess laughs and nods, covering her mouth with her free hand. “It’s like fate.”  
  
“Or a really stupid nightmare,” Dean mutters.  
  
As Jess and Sam begin to pick through the bin for one of each kind, Dean rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be where the _real_ men are,” he says, bumping Sam’s shoulder hard as he walks by.  
  
“The lingerie section?” Sam quips, and Dean turns around, flips Sam off before he disappears down an aisle.  
  
When they meet back up at the register, Dean tosses a couple of “L” brackets into the basket, some anchors and screws.  
  
“Hey, look what Sam found in the crafts section,” Jess says, nudges Dean with her elbow.  
  
Dean leans over to get a better look, nearly chokes as he spies the array of various tiny straw hats. There’s a tube of glue tossed in next to them, scattered with the flamingos, screws and “L” brackets.  
  
“You know he had a _My Little Pony_ when he was five,” Dean says, eyeing her seriously. “Bright pink. With purple stars on its hip. I think there was permanent damage.”  
  
*  
  
Dean watches as Sam tries again and again to glue the stupid hats on each flamingo. He makes snide comments and laments the loss of Sam’s manhood out loud as he eats leftover chicken Alfredo, until Sam tosses an empty planter pot at him. Dean flicks the bottle cap to his beer back at Sam, and Sam takes that as his cue to pack it all up and head for bed, flexing muscle in his jaw telling Dean just how annoyed his brother really is.  
  
Jess is already sleeping on the couch and Sam’s in such a snit that he doesn’t bother waking her, so Dean goes and sits next to her for a while, watching some ancient sci-fi movie that has special effects about as convincing as Pamela Anderson’s boobs—only less spectacular to look at.  
  
His eyes tick back and forth between the TV and the box with flamingo legs sticking up out of it until he finally sighs, gets up and walks over to it.  
  
*  
  
Jess wakes up on the couch, bleary eyed, Dean standing over her and shaking her gently.  
  
“Your back’s gonna kill you if you sleep there all night,” he says.  
  
“So let it then,” she says, only half kidding as she lazes into the couch again. She feels his hand run up the back of her thigh, just under the edge of her short, silk robe, fingertips caressing the curve of her ass.  
  
“If you want your back to hurt, I’ve got better ways we can make that happen,” he says. He slides his hand up under her body, between her legs, fingertips pressed against her clit through the satin of her panties. He moves in slow circles as she moans, thrusts her hips and humps his fingers into the couch until she’s soaked through.  
  
“Jesus. Always so wet,” he whispers.  
  
This time, she lets him pull her from the couch and they walk to the bedroom together, slide into bed and wake Sam up in the best way possible. She wraps her mouth around Sam’s cock while Dean fucks her from behind, in too much of a hurry to even pull her panties off, thumb hooking them to one side as he thrusts in and out of her.  
  
When she wakes up in the morning, lethargic, sweaty and sated, Dean’s gone like he said he would be.  
  
On the living room table, she finds eight flamingos lined up, each with a hat glued on, and in the dining room, there’s a new little shelf of wood extended from the window sill, held up by “L” brackets.  
  
-  
  
The parsley and tarragon are just beginning to sprout, bright green tips peeking cautiously through the soil. There are four more pots now –bay, thyme, rosemary, and mint - dirt damp and waiting for seeds to unfurl. Flamingos like sentinels watch over every tiny crop, standing on one leg or both as they patiently wait for the plants to grow.  
  
Jess is tipping the silver watering can, sunlight sparkling through the trickles of water when the front door flies open.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says. “Anyone wanna give me a hand?”  
  
Jess sets the watering can down, turns and applauds, and Dean makes a face, and then she can’t hold back anymore, runs across the apartment to greet him, arms flying around his shoulders.  
  
“Missed you,” she whispers.  
  
“Yeah,” he grates, nudges his head against hers and then pulls away. He smells like sweat and detergent, utterly like Dean, and she leans in close, tips her head and breathes deep.  
  
“Dean?” Sam comes out from the bedroom and Dean rolls his eyes as he gets enveloped in another hug.  
  
“So, you guys gonna help me or what?” he asks, voice gruff, and they both hear the lie in it, hear the “I missed you, too” buried underneath.  
  
Downstairs, in the parking lot, there’s a beat up old truck Jess has never seen before, king-sized mattress and box spring stuffed into the back of it.  
  
“Bobby let you borrow his truck?” Sam asks, sounding mystified.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, opening the tailgate.  
  
“This is for us?” Jess asks.  
  
“I told you we needed a bigger bed,” Dean says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  
  
“Dean.” She stops, turns and looks at him. He’s not quite meeting her eyes, and she can tell he’s nervous, maybe a little embarrassed, but he’ll never admit it. “Where did you get this?”  
  
He just shrugs, grabs the end of the mattress and starts lugging it out.  
  
They carry the box spring up the stairs first, and end up making so much noise trying to take it around the turn at the top that several neighbors poke their heads out their doors. Finally, Sam lifts it up and shoves it over the upstairs railing and Dean and Jess catch it, grab it, nearly fall over laughing at the weight of it. Sam hurries to help them carry it down the walk way, and by the time they get it angled through the door and inside, they’re breathless, gasping.  
  
They go back down for the mattress -- which is exquisitely pillow-topped and infinitely more squishable than the box spring -- and the carry it up past all their boggle-eyed, wondering neighbors, finally falling across it on the living room floor, box spring turned against the wall nearby.  
  
It takes them about an hour to set up the frame and get it all together, topped with silk sheets and a black, down-filled comforter, and Jess doesn’t even bother asking where _those_ came from.  
  
“All done,” Dean calls, and then there’s a flurry of bodies on the bed, tangled arms and legs and muffled laughter against the pillows.  
  
“Jesus, Dean. My _knees_ hang off this mattress.”  
  
“So we’ll sleep on it _sideways_ , Sasquatch. Still plenty of room.”  
  
“The neighbors are gonna be talking about this forever, you know,” Sam says, sounding fated. “Boyfriend’s brother comes over, they carry up a king-sized bed and the brother stays the weekend?”  
  
Dean grins and rolls over, fits his body against Jess’s in the middle between them, eyes heated. “Yeah, I’m thinking we should give them more to talk about.”  
  
Dean runs his hands up under her shirt, traces the muscles in her stomach and drifts up under her bra, leaves chills in his wake. Her nipples harden and Sam runs his hands down the backs of her thighs and back up, cupping her ass.  
  
“Christening?” she asks, grinning into Dean’s mouth, arching her hips into him.  
  
“Brand new bed. Needs some breaking in. That’s all I’m sayin’.”  
  
She leans in and kisses him, tongue sliding past those full lips, running over the ridges of the roof of his mouth. Sam presses his mouth to the back of her neck, bites down _hard_ and she gasps into Dean, arches her back and thrusts her ass into Sam. Dean breaks away from her, leans across her shoulder and licks against Sam’s mouth.  
  
“You been taking care of our girl?” Dean asks as he slides his hand down between her legs, and Jess feels the words thump through her, chest to feet, heart stuttering then pounding hard.  
  
“Of course,” Sam whispers back, and then she’s craning her neck to watch them kiss, Dean’s fingers pressing into her cleft, circling over her clit through her pants, Sam’s fingers digging into the muscles of her ass.  
  
Dean kisses along her collar bone, nipping lightly, fingers working leisurely between her legs as Sam sucks marks into the back of her neck, thrusts his hips into hers and thrusts her into Dean’s fingers until she’s cooing, practically begging.  
  
They let go of her for the few seconds it takes to strip her out of her clothes in tandem, and then she’s resting her head in Sam’s lap as he holds her, stroking her breasts and pinching their peaks as Dean laps at her already soaking cunt.  
  
“Taste so good,” he whispers against thin, shivering skin, then wraps his lips around her clit and shoves in two fingers, sucks until the world explodes, both of their hands all over her.  
  
She’s still shivering with aftershocks when Dean thrusts inside her, rock hard and wide, God so wide. He’s not as long as Sam is, but he’s thicker, head of his cock curving upward, pressing right against that spot inside her with every stroke. Dean’s kissing her as Sam strokes a hand through Jess’s hair, then Dean’s, whispering words of encouragement. The more she moans, the harder Dean fucks her, until she’s slamming into Sam and Sam puts his hands on her shoulders, holds her still, and Dean puts his hands on her hips and holds her there so she’s taking all of Dean’s momentum.  
  
“Come on Jess, let me see it,” Dean says, staring down into her hungrily, and he slides his hand between their bodies, flicks a thumb across her clit and she’s gone, tries to muffle her screams against Dean’s chest as she thrashes under and all around him, but he pulls back, won’t let her dampen the sound as he watches her face, his mouth half open in the shape of a decadent grin. She doesn’t close her eyes, meets his stare even though she can barely see him through the force of her orgasm, ripples and shudders through her like an earthquake and he only fucks her harder.  
  
“Yeah, just like that.”  
  
When she’s finally coming back down to earth, Dean pulls from her, glides his mouth down her body and suckles her clit into his mouth one last time, and her hips jolt against the mattress, orgasm surprising her  
as it rips through her. Slower and lower than the one just before it, warm, sharp circles flowing up through her belly.  
  
“Good girl,” he breathes, and she’s practically senseless, slack against the bed, hardly aware of what’s happening until Sam moves his body on top of her, between her legs, leans down to kiss her. He’s sweeter, softer, different rhythm than Dean’s tongue, no less delicious. He’s hard as stone, long inches sinking deep inside her, stroking over spots nothing else has ever touched, all the way to the bottom of her and then back out again.  
  
His fingers bite into her shoulders, pressing bruises along her collarbones, his mouth open and gasping, and she knows it’s not just her he’s enjoying, can see Dean behind him, knows Dean’s working him open with his fingers, watching her over Sam even as he bites into his brother’s shoulder.  
  
She can feel the exact moment Dean fucks into Sam, can feel Sam tense and gasp, shudder to a halt inside her, and then breathe again as he relaxes, the thrust of his hips first into her, and then backward into Dean. They gather slow momentum, building rhythm, and Dean fucks into Sam, thrusting Sam into her, and she rises to meet them both, legs wrapped around both of them as best she can. Mouth pressed against Sam’s, fingers over the skin of his back, then over Dean’s, pulling them in close and tight and she seizes again as Sam thrusts deep, echoing Dean’s movements inside him.  
  
Muffled screams into Sam’s mouth, and he kisses her harder, stiffens and pulses inside her, his shudders rippling through all of them, and she can hear Dean gasp, feel his fingers curl into her hair and tug, yanking her mouth up into Sam’s even harder as he comes.  
  
She strokes her hands over them as they all collapse, Dean rolling off to the side, Sam rolling off to the other, and they’ve each got one their hands interlaced, other hands pulling her into a tight grasp between them. And she knows in her heart of hearts this is wrong-- _should_ be wrong, anyway—but there’s another thing she knows, _believes_.  
  
If this is wrong, she doesn’t want to be right.  
  
*  
  
It’s late afternoon and she’s perched on the edge of the couch, notebook open and forgotten on her lap, twirling a pen between her fingers as she watches the TV with rapt attention. Sam’s in the kitchen making sandwiches and Dean comes out, hair still wet from the shower, clad in nothing but a low slung towel around his waist. He starts to walk past her to the kitchen, then pauses.  
  
“What’re you watching?” he asks, taking a step closer.  
  
“Iron Chef.”  
  
“Which episode?”  
  
“Chestnut battle.”  
  
“Kobe or Nakamura?”  
  
“Nakamura,” she says, turning to look at him.  
  
“Awesome,” he says, sitting down next to her on the couch. She scoots a little to give him room, can feel his thigh, still extremely warm from the shower water, as it presses against hers. “There was nobody like Michiba, though. He was the man.”  
  
“He so was,” Jess says. “Eight dishes in one battle.”  
  
“Thirty two wins, five losses, one tie,” Dean nods. “He’s the only guy I’d ever eat kelp for.”  
  
She notices then, that Sam’s gone still behind the kitchen counter and is staring at them both like they just merged bodies and became some kind of two-headed monster.  
  
“Dean… when did you start watching the Food Network?”  
  
“When you went off to college.” Sam just stares and finally Dean shrugs. “I told you, I like food.”  
  
Sam just shakes his head, amazed and amused.  
  
“Hey, don’t forget the extra onions on my sandwich,” Dean adds, sounding gruff.  
  
Sam tosses a chunk of onion at Dean and hits him right between the eyes with startling accuracy.  
  
“You—“ Dean’s up off the couch and running at Sam, who’s laughing and now has the whole onion in one hand and the open jar of mustard in the other. Dean’s towel goes flying off, and Jess is right behind him, hoping she reaches Sam before he makes good on his threat to cover Dean and the entire kitchen in mustard.  
  
In the end, Dean has to shower again and they both have to join him.  
  
The kitchen smells like mustard for days after Dean’s gone.  
  
-  
  
It’s been a few weeks, and Dean creeps in a couple hours before the sun, bone tired and burned out from a bad hunt. He falls into bed between Jess and Sam, nestling between their warmth, hooks an arm around each of them. They gravitate toward him in their sleep, Sam slinging an arm across his shoulders, Jess throwing her leg over him, and he sinks down into darkness faster than he can remember in a long time.  
  
“Dean! Dean! Wake up!”  
  
Jess is sitting up on the bed, shaking him and grinning at him, practically bouncing on the bed with excitement.  
  
“Did Santa Claus come?” he asks, blinking sleepily.  
  
She hops from the bed and opens the closet door. On the inside there’s a flat piece of wood nailed to the door, about two feet by two feet, with a series of concentric circles painted on it. Dean can see the wood is pitted and pocked, riddled with marks that scar the wood, even from this far away.  
  
He rolls over onto his side to get a better view and comes face to face with Sam, his brother’s eyes just fluttering open.  
  
“Check this out,” Jess says, and she’s practically shivering with excitement, standing there in her little white slip of a nightgown. She reaches over and unfolds a piece of leather sitting on top of the tall dresser and takes something from it.  
  
Next thing Dean knows, she’s got her arm back, aiming, and then-- _thunk_. There’s a throwing knife sunk into the wood, just inside the very center circle. Quick as a cat, she throws the next two, and they land even closer together, almost dead center in the piece of wood.  
  
Jess turns to Dean, grin spreading over her face so huge and excited and happy that Dean can’t help but grin back, despite how surprised he is.  
  
“Damn, Jess. You’ve got an arm on you.”  
  
“I’ve been practicing.”  
  
“I can see that.”  
  
“She’s been dying to show you,” Sam says, sounding proud.  
  
Jess does show him, three more times, and by the third go around he’s still just as impressed, but he’s starting to have some other feelings about it, too, because goddamn that’s _hot_.  
  
When she starts to collect the knives again, he sits up, fingers catching in her night gown.  
  
“Leave ‘em,” he says and pulls her down to him.  
  
Sam kisses them both, then vanishes into the hallway, and Dean makes good use of their time alone to show Jess exactly how impressed he is.  
  
*  
  
The bar is bustling, thronged with college kids drinking beer and eating French fries, sounds of laughter and warm bodies all around. Dean and Sam are squaring off across the pool table against Tommy and Chris. Dean’s got a bottle of beer in one hand, pool cue in the other, and Sam’s bending down to take a shot.  
  
Jess sits off to the side, against the wall on one of the tall high-backed chairs, drinking a Coors and watching them. She loves to watch the two of them work together, move in tandem with strategy. They do it so effortlessly, lifetime of growing up together and training together at work, and it never ceases to fascinate her.  
  
The jukebox is cranking, Raggae remake of a song she remembers from when she was a kid, and she feels _full_ , warm and bubbly inside.  
  
 _Whenever I’m alone with you You make me feel like I am home again_  
  
Tina and Kelly are there, too, perched next to her on chairs of their own, watching Tommy and Chris, and this is like a lot of nights Jess and Sam have spent here, the three couples hanging out together. Except that Dean’s here, and that makes it _right_.  
  
 _Whenever I’m alone with you You make me feel like I am whole again_  
  
Dean takes his time chalking his cue, makes a joking remark about his prowess to Chris, who laughs and tells him to bring it on.  
  
“So Jess,” Tina whispers, leaning in close enough for Jess to smell a flash of the girl’s flowery perfume. “What’s the story with the brother?’  
  
“I told you last time. He comes and stays with us sometimes.”  
  
“But didn’t you like, used to date him?”  
  
Jess turns to look at the red-haired girl, surprised.  
  
To her credit, Tina looks chagrined. “Well, you know, Sophie told me. She saw him a couple times when you guys were rooming.”  
  
Her ex-roommate. She should’ve seen this coming. “Yeah. But that was a long time ago.” It hasn’t quite been a year since she met Dean, so that’s not even close to the truth, but she hopes Tina’s going to back off and let it go.  
  
“And… they’re both okay with that?”  
  
“They’re brothers,” Jess shrugs, like that settles it.  
  
“Yeah, but still, it must be weird sometimes, right?”  
  
Jess turns around, watches as Dean leans down over the pool table, muscles in his arm flexing as he lines up the shot, intent look in his eyes. Sam’s right behind him, lining up the shot with his eyes, the picture of a calculating teammate.  
  
“Not even a little bit,” Jess says, smiles.  
  
Dean and Sam win the game by a mile, leave Tommy and Chris grumbling for a rematch. They oblige, grinning, and she feels so full of pride, happiness and love that she thinks she might just burst.  
  
The night goes on and the beer flows, and by the time midnight rolls around, Dean’s trying to teach Jess some trick shots. She leans across the table and lines up the shot.  
  
“Like this,” Dean says. She feels his fingertips touch her hip lightly to shift her stance, and she follows his guidance. He leans down across her, chest pressing against her back. She can smell him –cologne and musk, sweat and utterly male—warm and solid, and she bites down against her lower lip, wills herself to focus.  
  
He helps her align her cue, feels his breath, hot against the back of her neck, and when she glances up, Tina’s staring at her with raised brows.  
  
Jess just grins and tilts her head in a shrug.  
  
And if Sam’s hand strays to Dean’s arm at odd moments, grinning with too much beer and happiness, if Dean lets his glance linger on Sam just a little too long, her friends at least pretend not to notice.  
  
Nobody ever asks her about it again. She thinks maybe they don’t really want to know.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Dean’s up almost before the sun and out the door. He’s a little achy, still from the hunt and also from more recent, pleasant activities, and he’s stretching, yawning on his way down the stairs. When he gets to the truck, there’s something waiting on the front seat for him. He regards it with suspicion for a moment before the stacked shapes register.  
  
*  
  
It’s dinner time and Jess is feeling a little under the weather, not really wanting to cook. She bends down, peruses the refrigerator.  
  
“Hey, Sam? Where’s the chicken parmesan leftovers? And the beef stroganoff? And the garlic mashed potatoes?” Sam doesn’t answer right away, and she stands up, closes the fridge door and looks at him.  
  
Sam looks oddly embarrassed, and she can’t even begin to imagine why.  
  
He flushes a little, looking down. “If I’m right?” he says, smile creeping around the edges of his mouth. “Dean’s eating them right about now.”  
  
“Oh, Sam,” she laughs, wraps him up in her arms and rises on her tiptoes to kiss him.  
  
*  
  
Dean sits in the car, eating leftover chicken parmesan and watching the house of the kid he thinks might just be responsible for summoning the demon to town. Rush is playing, low reverberations murmuring through the car, and he’s humming along, foot tapping against the floor.  
  
He still hunts, still comes when his Dad calls. But Dad seems to be doing his own thing, and Dean gets his own cases these days. Does his own research and legwork.  
  
He doesn’t take any jobs further east than Kansas, anymore.  
  
-  
  
Before they know it, it’s summer time again. The campus is quiet, mostly empty, and it’s hard to believe the peace that’s settled over the whole town.  
  
When she asks them to teach her how to hunt, she expects some kind of macho, chauvinistic attempt at chivalry, but Dean just arches a brow and looks over her shoulder at Sam, and she can see Sam tilt his head in a shrug.  
  
“Okay,” Dean says.  
  
Her boys have really never been like other men.  
  
-  
  
“What the fuck is _that_?” Jess yells, pointing at the apparition.  
  
Hunting isn’t a goddamned thing like she thought it would be. It’s all fear and adrenaline. Nothing of nobility, nothing of heroism. Just a girl doing what needs done, her heart pounding in her throat, threatening to explode, mouth dry and eyes wide, praying to survive.  
  
“That’s _it_ ,” Dean yells back, fires through it with rock salt, and the visage screams, snarls, ugly black mouth curling around vicious teeth before it dissipates.  
  
“Sam,” Jess cries, shaking him by the shoulders, and there’s an ugly ring of bruises around his neck from where the spirit grabbed him, but he’s still breathing, eyes fluttering open.  
  
“Come on,” Dean says, drags them both from the floor.  
  
Twenty minutes and a harrowing drive later, they’re standing over a grave, all of them digging furiously.  
  
“Gotta salt and burn the bones,” Dean had explained, and she doesn’t really understand it, just knows they need to hurry, because whatever she saw earlier is still out there, coming for them.  
  
And come for them it does, wrapping icy fingers around Dean’s throat this time, perceiving him as the threat.  
  
Jess doesn’t hesitate, rolls out of the grave and grabs the shotgun, lines up and fires, shooting right through its face over the angle of Dean’s shoulder.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean croaks, turns. “We to the bottom yet?”  
  
“Working on it,” Sam calls, digging in again.  
  
Five minutes later, Dean’s shovel hits against something hard and they kneel, carve out the shape of the coffin lid with their hands. They scramble out, her and Dean standing around the grassy edges, salt in his  
hands, gasoline in hers.  
  
“Ready?” Dean asks her, face grave as the place they’re standing.  
  
She nods, and Sam lifts the lid, gust of rot and death breathing out and sweeping over them, and God, she’s never smelled anything like it. Her lungs curl from the scent, stomach cringing and revolting.  
  
“Jess. Jessie,” Dean yells. “Come on, I need you _here_.”  
  
The spirit rushes them, pale, dead skin, black eyes and lips, rope burns around its neck, hands hooked into claws and it’s coming for _her_ this time.  
  
She takes a deep breath, resolves herself. Pours the gasoline on top of the salt, watches the crystals dissolve in the wake of the liquid. Pulls the matches from her pocket, strikes it once, twice, and then throws the flickering flame inside.  
  
The spirit falls back, inches from her face as it opens its mouth in a scream. The bones inside the coffin blaze in a sickening gust of burning, rotten flesh, heat rising up to sear her cheeks, and she falls back a pace, arm rising to cover her eyes.  
  
Sam is crawling to her across the grass, asking if she’s okay, and she pulls him into her arms as Dean stands above them both, looking at her with something like pride in his eyes.  
  
*  
  
They start her out slow—slow as they can, anyway—and it takes her some time to get the hang of it all, but thankfully she’s got good aim and a lot of nerve.  
  
She learns the tricks of the trade, what works for a spirit, for a vampire, a werewolf, and it surprises her, how much of folklore is true, but not nearly as much as it surprises her that they’ve been doing this all their lives and can still sit down and eat a normal meal at night. That they can talk and laugh and fuck and live beyond the truth of the world outside.  
  
She lets them teach her how to do that, too.  
  
-  
  
Weeks pass with hunting, switching back and forth between motels and Dean staying at the apartment, until summer wanes. Fall now, bleeding into winter, and it doesn’t make much of a mark here, palm trees still as tall and green. Classes have started, the old familiar scribble of pen over paper and the smell of thick, freshly pressed books.  
  
Jess stands in the bathroom, hands fluttering nervously, climbing up around her throat and through her hair.  
  
“Come on, come on, come on,” she whispers, pleading with the little piece of plastic on the back of the toilet.  
  
Long seconds tick past, and she feels every one of them, clicking through her bones and blood. She picks up the plastic, stares at it. Shakes it, stares at it again.  
  
She turns, half falls onto the closed toilet lid, hand coming up to cover her mouth, tiny piece of simple technology in her other hand, reeling in the face of what it tells her.  
  
“Jess?” Sam’s knocking on the door, and he sounds worried. He should be.  
  
She swallows, tries to answer, can’t find the words, throat swelling closed around them.  
  
“Jess?” Sam opens the door, face concerned and maybe a little frightened, and she can’t stand to see him that way, despite how she feels inside.  
  
She rises from the toilet seat, throws the door wide and grabs him in a tight hug around his neck.  
  
“What is it?” he asks, stroking fingers through her hair. “Jess?” He pulls back slow, keeps his hands on her shoulders and looks straight into her eyes, and God, she can’t hide from those eyes, never could.  
  
“Sam,” she says, pushing the words out like breathing under water. “I’m pregnant.”


	2. Chapter 2

He kisses her over and over again, holds her close against his chest, murmurs that he’s happy, that this is okay, but she doesn’t know if it is. Because there’s still one part of this equation that hasn’t weighed in. One part that’s just as important as hers, or Sam’s.

*

“Dean.”

“Hey, Sam,” Dean’s voice crackles over the line, alive and full of hearty joy.

“Where are you?”

“Vegas,” Dean laughs, sounding pleased. “I gotta tell you, if half the cases were here I’d be a happy man.”

“Good, you’re not far.”

“What is it?” Dean asks without hesitation, quick and serious, all traces of laughter gone.

“It’s Jess.”

“What’s wrong?” And he can hear the worry spiraling up into his brother’s voice.

“Dean…” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Dean… she’s pregnant.”

Silence from the other end of the line, crackling static, and he can imagine his brother’s face.

“You’re serious?” Dean asks, like Sam had better not be kidding about this, on pain of his life he’d better not be kidding.

“One hundred percent,” Sam says.

“Whose is it?” Dean asks, voice strained.

“Don’t know. I was thinking…” Sam grits his teeth, sits down on a bar stool in the kitchen. “I was thinking, it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

Another long pause, and then Dean answers, sounding neutral, distracted. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

“Dean… if you could come right away…”

“I’ll be there, Sam,” Dean promises, his voice unreadable, and the line goes dead.

*

Dean drives through the city, neon and blinking lights speeding by, and he loves it here, loves this town in all its vulgarity and crassness. It’s exactly his kind of city, and he’s been loving this hunt.

Except…

Except that few hundred miles away is home, and family.

Baby. There’s a baby. Jess is pregnant. He’s never much been one for settling down, always liked his life, miles on the open road ahead of him, hands on the steering wheel, possibilities and new adventures around the next turn.

Pretty girls, waitresses and town folk, hanging on his words, opening their thighs, killing monsters and saving innocent people. This has been his life as long as he can remember, ever since he was old enough to hunt in his own right. Especially since Sam left.

But his life’s not just that, anymore. A couple hundred miles away is home base, family and all the sweetness he’s ever known. And he’s played the part, taken his freedom, switched back and forth between his life and his hunting, found a balance that’s brought him a measure of comfort.

Pretty girls, giving him the eye, and he hasn’t fucked a one of them in months. Not since Sam and Jess happened. And he’s just been too busy, too distracted, too preoccupied, who wouldn’t be, with all he has going on?

He’s surprised to find he hasn’t given it a lot of thought. It just “is”. Sam and Jess are there, waiting for him, keeping the bed warm, their arms open, going on with their lives but not without him. A part of him and apart from him, and they’re all that’s ever really mattered, even he can’t lie to himself enough to gloss over that.

Baby. There’s a baby. Could be his, might be Sam’s. Doesn’t matter. There’s two people who love him and a kid who’s gonna need him.

He could stay here, lose himself in the city, the hunts, the nameless girls.

He drives past the city limits, takes the exit and floors it.

He’s going home.

*

Jess spends the night staring at the ceiling, and Sam holds her close and tight. She curls into the embrace, thankful for the warmth and the love and she knows he’s there, he’s with her. There’s a lot of comfort in the thought, and she feels safe… but there’s a part of her that’s empty, that still wonders and questions, just as much as she imagines Sam must be right now.

He runs his hands down her face, traces the shape of her bones with his fingers. “He said he’ll be here.”

“I know.”

*

Sam’s sitting on the edge of the couch, Jess curled around him in a ball as he stares dully at Regis and Kathy Lee, when Dean bursts through the door.

He’s got a stuffed animal and a mobile tucked under one arm, antique cars dangling from the ends of white strings. In the other hand, he’s got two bottles of champagne, necks nestled between his fingers.

“So I was thinking, we could build a nursery in the den,” Dean says as he sits down beside them, sets the bottles on the coffee table. Sam can see clearly now that one of them is champagne and the other is sparkling cider, non-alcoholic, for Jess, he assumes.

Sam looks at Jess and she smiles, sits up to kiss Dean, long and lingering. He runs his hands through her hair, and then winds one down to her belly, lets it rest there.

“I’m pretty sure I can build a crib,” Dean says when Jess finally lets go, and Sam laughs, can’t help it.

“I love you, Dean,” he says, and leans in, kisses Dean hard, ignoring the stunned look in his brother’s eyes.

*

They put the teddy bear and the mobile in the den, which in its former life probably served as a really tiny bedroom. It’ll be perfect for a nursery, though, and they clear out some of the boxes, find room for them in the living room closet. After, they all crowd onto the couch and eat dinner, watching The Matrix.

“We could do a test,” Jess is saying, eyes downcast, fork fiddling in her noodles, and Dean’s already shaking his head, Sam joining in just after a second.

“We’ll know it’s Sam’s if it comes out looking like Frankenstein,” Dean says, and she bursts out laughing, noodles sticking in her throat.

“And if it comes out with lips like Angelina Jolie, we’ll know it’s Dean’s,” Sam adds. Dean leans across her, punches Sam in the shoulder and gives her a grin like the sun coming over horizon. Sam grabs her in his arms and hugs her tight, pressing a kiss against the nape of her neck, and Dean kisses her mouth, slow and gentle.

“It’s ours,” Dean says. “No matter what.”

*

The doctor tells her she’s more than a month gone, into five weeks, which she knew already. He assures her that she’s absolutely normal for this stage, and Sam’s there to hold her hand through it all. Dean stands on the other side and fidgets, his hand occasionally straying to touch her hair, or her shoulder as the doctor speaks.

He plays the part of the anxious uncle and the doctor seems a little weirded out by it at first, but warms slowly to Dean’s charms, including him in the explanation of everything.

*

Dean stays for two weeks, helps Sam clear out the den and doesn’t let Jess do too much. He’s constantly there, in the kitchen, making sandwiches and macaroni and ramen noodles, and it’s not the healthiest they’ve ever eaten, but in the evenings, when Sam and Jess get back from school, dinner’s always waiting for them.

*

In the end, John calls, needs Dean to help him with a case, and Dean clenches his jaw, nods to the phone and hangs up with more strength than is really necessary.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, finding Jess’s eyes first, then Sam’s. “Dad needs me.”

“It’s okay,” Jess says, twining her arms around his neck and kissing him. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Sam steps up behind her, wraps his arms around them both.

And for the very first time, maybe, Dean believes it.

-

Dean calls them almost everyday while he’s gone. They’re on the trail of something Dean’s never heard of before, special type of Eastern vampire called a Pennangalan.

“You should see the pictures of this thing. Hot chick, yeah, but her head separates from her body when she feeds, drags out all these dried up organs with it, like strings on a balloon. Brings a whole new meaning to the old ball and chain.”

Jess eats strawberries and raspberries, oranges and pomegranates for breakfast. Sandwiches and carrot sticks for lunch. Chicken, plain in every form, and asparagus for dinner, broccoli and raw cucumbers, and Sam smiles at her across the couch, fucks her slow when they go to bed, gentle and soft, hands running through her hair. Her belly isn’t swelling yet, but she can feel the life there, she thinks, slowly growing, amalgam of them all, and she thinks this child will be more blessed than most for having the three of them in its life.

-

Three full weeks pass before Dean shows up again, another stuffed animal and a box of little tin race cars tucked under his arm.

“I figure all kids like race cars,” he says by way of unasked explanation. Pauses a moment and then takes a breath. “How you doing?” he asks Jess, eyes all over her face, sliding down to her belly.

“Great,” she says and laughs. “I’m great.”

Dean nods, and Jess takes the gifts from him, lets Sam step between them and hug Dean hard.

“I guess you’re okay, too, huh?” Dean asks him with a grin.

*

They’re gentle with her, almost sweet, roughness reserved for hands around her wrists or mouths against hers. After, they’re wrapped around each other in bed, sweaty and sated and slick, and Sam’s got his head on Jess’s belly, Dean’s hand over his exposed ear, caressing Sam--and her belly, by proxy-- Dean’s other arm snugged underneath her neck.

“Think he’ll get my jaw?” Dean asks.

Sam chuckles, breath of air against her skin, and she smiles.

“We don’t even know if it’s a he, yet.”

“Okay, she then,” Dean amends, like he’s not picky, shrugging against Jess.

They all lay there in silence for a while, comfortable and warm.

“You know,” Dean starts, then stops abruptly, words cutting off.

Sam lifts his head, turns to look at his brother, and Jess turns her head, too. Dean worries at his lower lip, frowns, and they let him have his moment, take his time.

Finally the words come tumbling out in a rush. “Just, I was thinking you know, maybe I should quit hunting.”

Jess just stares, and she can feel Sam’s breathing change.

“You know, since there’s gonna be a kid, I figure maybe I should be around more.” He says it offhandedly, like Jess and Sam weren’t staring at him like he was some kind of alien. He’s still composed, relaxed against the bed, and if it’s an act—and Jess suspects it is—then he’s doing a damned good job.

“Yeah…” Sam says. Slowly nods. “Yeah, Dean. That’d be great.” And his voice is so warm, so welcoming, and Jess can tell it takes everything in Sam to hold back, be as calm as Dean pretends to be right now. This is more than right now, more than this moment; it’s a lifetime of arguing between them, the only true point of contention that’s ever been between them, finally spoken, finally, maybe, laid to rest.

And Jess, Jess just smiles, leans up and kisses his cheek, watches him grin and duck his face away.

“So, yeah.” Dean concludes his little speech with a wave of his hands, and they just smile, let it go.

And that’s that.

*

Through the next week, Dean works and hammers away at building a crib, Sam there with as much support as he has time to give, and Jess watches over them when she can, brings them beer, lets them argue over which kind of screws will hold longer and best, holding her tongue.

At the end of the week, Dean flips over the crib, stands it on its four legs and looks as proud as Jess has ever seen him.

“There.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, and it is.

“It’s perfect, Dean,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean says, hammer swinging in one hand as he stares at it proudly. “I’m awesome.”

*

A few days later she’s feeling so nauseous that she decides to skip the rest of her afternoon classes, walks home in the dappled sunlight, sandals scuffing easily against the concrete. In seven months or so, she’ll barely be able to waddle, and the thought strikes her so odd and strange that she rubs a hand down over the tiny bump in her belly.

When she opens the apartment door, the paint fumes hit her right away, and she groans, clutching her stomach even as she runs to the den.

“Dean! You can’t! We’re –“

“Jess!” Dean looks surprised as he sets aside the paint brush, climbs down from his wooden stepstool. “You shouldn’t be in here while I’m doing this.” The windows in the room are all wide open to the afternoon sunshine, big exhaust fans blowing air out through the screens, and she has no idea where he got all this stuff.

“But Dean, we’re only renting, we’re not allowed to paint. Siegfried will have a fit.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Ziggy. I talked to him, everything’s cool. He wanted me to tell you congratulations by the way.”

She just stands there and blinks at him for a second, trying to make the conversion from Siegfried to Ziggy, and wonders exactly how much time Dean could have spent with the elderly landlord to make it to such a nickname basis. She comes out with the only question she can think of.

“You mean… he said we could paint?”

“I brought him up to show him the crib and mentioned something about the color, and he said that 1970’s green was too dark for a baby’s room, and it was past time for repainting it anyway, so we went to the paint store and picked out some colors…”

She’s still trying to wrap her brain around Dean and Siegfried going anywhere together when Dean holds up a can of aqua colored paint that matches the building siding in one hand, and a can of plain white in the other.

“Blue walls and white trim,” he announces, proudly. “And it’ll match the rest of the place.”

“No flamingo pink?” she asks, and he laughs.

“If it’s a girl, we can cover the white trim with pink, he said, but he wants the walls blue.” Dean sets the cans back down, and all Jess can do is stare. “This was supposed to be a surprise, by the way. What’re you doing home? You okay?”

“My stomach,” she says, rubbing at it. “Feeling nauseous.”

“Yeah, and the fumes aren’t helping,” he adds, pushing her gently toward the door. “Go get some rest.”

She staggers down the hall, a bit dazed by it all, then shrugs and lays down on the bed, out almost before her head hits the pillow.

When she wakes up a few hours later, she can hear Sam and Dean arguing in low voices in the den.

“Pink’s a very calming color, Dean.”

“And what if we have a son, Sam? You gonna make him grow up in a pink room?”

“It’s just the trim, Dean—“

“Besides, there’s enough pink in the rest of this house. Boy’ll get his share, anyway. Shouldn’t have to be subjected to it in his room, too,” Dean says sounding disgusted.

“And if it’s a girl?”

“White’s a lot easier to paint over than pink.”

“Fine.”

She can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Good,” Dean says, sounding satisfied.

She smiles, pushes up from the bed, runs her hands through her hair and walks down the hall.

Dean’s kneeling, paintbrush tipped in white and lining the trim along the floor. His skin’s gotten darker since he’s been spending so much time out west, and he’s turned a deeper shade of golden brown, freckles brought to life and darkened across his cheeks. He’s got a smudge of white paint across his forehead and another smudge on his faded jeans. He’s not wearing a shirt, and neither is Sam. Sam’s clad in a pair of ripped jeans tighter than she’s used to seeing him wear them, and he’s got aqua spatters across his chest and neck as he’s finishing rolling the last wall of the room. They’re a little sweaty, muscles moving as they work, and she leans against the doorway and watches for a bit, feeling content and warm. When Sam finally turns and sees her, he smiles.

“Hey. You feeling any better?”

“Can you guys paint the house all the time?” she asks.

*

“So,” the doctor says, moving cold plastic over her belly. “If you look right here…” He maneuvers a little, and the picture on the screen shifts. “There,” he says, nods. “It’s a girl!”

Sam’s hand clutching hers tightens, and suddenly Dean’s got her other hand.

“We’re gonna have a girl,” Dean says, reverent and happy as Jess has ever heard him, and the doctor cranes his neck, looks at Dean with an odd expression.

Jess laughs and squeezes them both tight.

*

Jess can hear their voices as soon as she walks into the apartment.

Dean and Sam are standing in the nursery, facing each other, each with a paintbrush in their hands, tips thick with pink paint. The trim is painted over with one full coat of thin pink, and she imagines Sam would be gloating right about now if he weren’t so intent on his brother. She stands there, doesn’t interrupt as she watches through the doorway.

“So I’m thinking,” Dean’s saying. “You and Jess can finish school, get your degrees, or whatever. And I can be here with the kid, you know? Someone should be here, and it’s not like… not like I have anywhere else to be.” Dean shrugs, nonchalance implied but not quite carrying through.

She feels it rush through her, warmth and surprise and love like sunshine through her veins, and then she steps into the room.

Sam’s just looking at his brother in amazement, and Jess runs her hands up Dean’s neck, clasps his face between her palms and kisses him.

“I love you, Dean,” she whispers, and she thinks he smiles for a second before he pats her cheek and steps back.

“So,” he says, shifting his tone up a notch into lighthearted humor, grinning. “That works for you guys?”

“You’re… you’re gonna be a Nanny,” Sam says, sounding stupefied.

“Shut up,” Dean growls and flicks his brush before Sam can move, paints his brother’s nose pink.

*

The nursery is perfect, painted and dried, growing piles of toys and mobiles set off to the side. Dean’s been talking about making a bassinet, and Sam and Jess have stopped being surprised.

He’s here. He’s here and he’s staying.

It’s Saturday and she’s tossing a salad in the kitchen, adding tomatoes and watching Sam and Dean watch Captain Kangaroo when it happens—sharp pain shooting through her stomach and a sudden rush of wetness between her thighs that has nothing to do with either of them. They’re sitting on the couch, lounging lazily together, and her vision goes blurry through the pain, one hand creeping down to her belly.

She drops the salad tongs and staggers around the counter, leans her back against it heavily and looks down.

Bright flood of crimson, trickling down her thighs, and she gasps.

Dean looks up first. “Jess, what’s--”

And then it’s all a blur, both of them rushing her, getting her under her arms and carrying her to the couch.

“Oh, Jess, oh God, no,” Sam breathes.

Dean’s face is tight, taut and pale, lips set firmly together around his concern, and she knows he knows as well as she does what’s happening.

*

Smell of sterility and death all around, the sounds of machinery and heavy breathing. Fluorescent lights burn, harsh and pale and vaguely green, and everywhere Dean looks, everything is ugly.

“I’m very sorry,” the doctor’s saying, and Dean can’t look at him. Can’t look at Jess or Sam or he’s going to break right here. He can hear Jess sniffling quietly, hear Sam shift uncomfortably on his feet. Dean stands perfectly still and he isn’t sure if it’s hit him yet. Isn’t sure he wants to be there when it does.

*

After, when they get home from the hospital, they wrap themselves around her in bed, comforting cross knit of limbs across her. Dean holds her around the shoulders and Sam wraps his arms around her waist, and they just lay there with her, silent and warm.

They sleep for a while, and when Sam gets up to go out and get them some food, Dean stays right there, twines his fingers in her hair and holds her tight.

They have dinner out of cardboard boxes of Chinese, and all Jess can stomach is some steamed white rice before she sets her fork down in the box and lays back on the pillows.

Dean pauses in forking a mouthful of fried rice to his mouth, glances over at her. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice cracking, and then a sob seizes, tears from her throat, and she shoves a hand against her face, not wanting to do this. Not to them.

“Jessie. Jessie, no,” Dean says. He lets his fork drop, puts a hand on her leg.

Sam sets his food down, lays down beside her and puts an arm across her chest, fingers curling against her ribs. “It’s okay Jess”, Sam whispers, voice gentle.

“I wanted… I wanted…” her voice breaks and the tears spill over, words lost in the flood.

Dean moves his other hand, lets it glide down her chest to her belly, light grazing touch as he lets it rest there.

“I know,” Dean says, voice subdued.

She feels Sam lace his fingers through Dean’s, squeeze his brother’s hand tight. “We can do it again. Later, when the timing’s better,” Sam says.

She cries, held tight between them, and she thinks maybe Sam sobs, maybe she feels some wetness on her chest where Dean lets his head come to rest.

*

When Sam leaves for class, he presses a kiss against both their foreheads. He turns to look back at them before he closes the door, Dean tangled all around Jess, both of them twisted up in the sheets and clinging to each other.

When he gets home, they’re both still there, curled into each other on the bed, Dean’s arms wrapped around Jess, her hands clasped over his. And hard as this is for her, Sam thinks maybe his brother’s mourning just as hard.

Dean stirs as Sam slips into bed behind him, and Sam presses a kiss into the curve of Dean’s shoulder.

“How is she?” he whispers. He can feel Dean shrug against him.

“She’s out. Painkillers put her under.”

They lay there like that for a while in silence, Sam’s arms wrapped around Dean, all of them breathing slow.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice rough and gravelly. “Did you…” He feels Dean take a deep breath, feels his brother’s shoulders tense against his chest, and Dean hesitates so long that he’s afraid Dean’s not going to finish his sentence. “Did you mean what you said… about doing it again?”

He nods, smiles into his brother’s skin. “Yeah, Dean.”

Dean disentangles himself from Jess with slow, gentle motions, then rolls over inside Sam’s embrace, faces him. Sam’s never seen him look quite like this, something fragile behind those green eyes, something lost and hopeful just under the surface.

“Woulda been really cool, you know?” Dean says. He takes a breath, breaks eye contact for a second, and Sam leans in, puts a palm against Dean’s cheek and turns his brother’s face to look at Sam again.

“It will be,” Sam says, and kisses him.

He pulls Dean further away from Jess, tucks his brother’s body under his, never breaking their kiss. They don’t do it like this very often, Sam on top of Dean and Dean kissing him back desperately. Sam can count the times on two hands when he’s been the one to offer comfort, to take the lead.

He lets his hands roam slow, tracking the curves and lines of his brother’s body, fingertips digging in the soft places between his brother’s ribs, the hollows of his hips. Not hard enough to leave marks, just enough to make his brother’s breath catch, his tongue and body stutter against Sam’s. When he’s tasted every inch of his brother with soft touches, he kisses a slow trails down his brother’s body, takes the head of Dean’s cock between his lips and sucks it, slides up and down the length with measured bobs, his hands finding Dean’s and interlacing their fingers.

He pulls off and slides down further, spreads Dean’s legs and licks at him until Dean relaxes, goes boneless and breathless beneath him. Presses his tongue inside his brother’s body and works him with easy thrusts, feeling Dean slowly open to his intrusion. Dean lets go of one of Sam’s hands and strokes it into Sam’s hair, twining strands around his fingers until he’s made a soft fist, his hips rocking up into Sam’s tongue. He widens his tongue, sinks it deep and flattens it, swirls it inside until Dean’s whispering words hot with need.

“Need you, Sam.”

He lets his tongue slip from his brother’s body, spits into his palm and slicks his cock until it glistens. Glide of skin to skin as he moves back up, finds Dean’s mouth and kisses it.

“I know,” he whispers back, words given with a gasping breath into Dean as he pushes inside.

He fucks Dean slow, watches his brother’s face contort with slight pain that flows over into pleasure until all he can see is Dean’s eyes fluttering closed, mouth open and panting, making words like fuck and yes.

Sam reaches down, takes his brother’s cock in his hand, pulls up and down it with slowly tightening friction until Dean arches beneath him, shoves his hips up to meet Sam’s, fingers curled tight into Sam’s shoulders, trembling on the verge.

Dean comes, teeth biting down against Sam’s lower lip, shivered breaths between, and Sam spills inside his brother, pulsing and filling him, heartbeat pounding through his cock, through the cages of their chests pressed together.

When they’re both finished, Sam rubs the slickness into Dean’s belly until it disappears, smiling at the twitches of Dean’s body, the hisses of breath when Sam touches too near his cock.

They fall asleep like that, Sam’s body still half covering Dean’s, Dean’s arms still around him.

*

Dean wakes in the middle of the night and slips out from under Sam’s heavy limbs. He doesn’t look at them as he slides from the bed, turns his back and pulls on his clothes, walks out into the hallway.

The room still smells of fresh paint, wooden crib at the center and toys tucked into the corner, waiting for an arrival that will never come. He stands in the would-be nursery for a long time, staring at the empty crib and thinking.

*

When Sam wakes in the morning, Dean’s gone.

“You… think he went back to hunting?” Jess asks.

It’s the only thing Dean really knows how to do, and Sam knows it. It’s why he never stayed before.

“Yeah,” he answers.

-

It was all Dean ever wanted, really. A family, a home. A normal life, he thinks, thought like bitter bile at the back of his throat. Funny, he’d never really thought much about it before—never had the time or opportunity to, really—but now that he’s tasted it… he’s not sure he can ever go back.

He thought he’d finally found his place.

Baby girl. A baby girl, and they might have named her Mary. And she’d have been perfect, everything Dean never imagined he could have or wanted. He’d seen her face in his dreams half a dozen times before she’d left them, imagined her blond curls, baby voice singing out the word Daddy.

He’s gonna miss her.

*

Dean spends a week just driving. No particular destination, just following the roads, stopping and staying in a motel when he has to. He eats alone, doesn’t turn on the TV. Dines on tasteless food and drinks tequila to wash it down, leaves the Styrofoam cartons on the night table, and falls asleep in their greasy stench, grateful for the way it all blots out memory.

One of the motels he stops at in Southern California is rife with flamingo décor when he opens the door -- arching necks and awkward legs carved into the wooden separator, pink bodies in flight across aqua blue wallpaper -- and he slams it shut behind him seconds later. Walks to the office and returns the key, ignores the desk clerks questions.

He drives another fifteen miles to the next place.

*

He’s three sheets to the wind inside a bar in San Antonio when he meets Janine, tall, proud brunette who’s a little older than he usually picks ‘em, but she’s still gorgeous, breasts sitting high and firm, arch of her spine like an invitation, dark brown eyes that look at him like she might care.

He lets her help him stagger out of the bar, directs her back to the motel room he’s staying in—white walls, plain white walls, thank God – and when they get there, she helps him inside and doesn’t leave. Sits on the bed and kisses him until the room spins under his feet and he thinks maybe he’s just dreaming it all.

He isn’t sure what he says to her, what he murmurs into her mouth, against her breasts as he kisses. He just knows words come tumbling out, nonsensical sounds lost in the tapestry of skin in his arms. But he must say something that catches her attention, because she stops and pulls back to look at him. There are crow’s feet just beginning to form around her eyes, indelible fine lines when she squints. Her mouth is still red as cherries, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“She was something, huh?” Janine asks, eyes him knowingly.

“She would’ve been,” he says and nods. “She would’ve been.”

Janine doesn’t pretend to understand

He imagines what he must look like to her; brokenhearted man who’s lost the love of his life. Broken man looking for anyone, anything to lose himself in. Man without a life or a home to take it to.

There was a place, he wants to tell her, starts to tell her, in his drunken haze.

But it’s not like that was ever meant to be his life, right? This is his life, here out on the open road, hunting monsters and falling into a stranger’s arms. He was an idiot to ever think it could have been different.

Janine helps him undress, runs her hands over his body and he feels himself get hard. And it isn’t right, but it’s what he knows, it’s what he does, and so he takes her in his arms, bears her to the bed.

“I’m gonna miss her,” he whispers, and Janine wraps her arms around him, takes him deep inside and holds him close.

It doesn’t feel like anything.

-

Sam gets home before Jess on Thursday’s, and he rounds the corner in the complex walking slow, his thoughts still stuck in a week and a half ago.

Siegfried’s there, sitting on a folding chair in front of the main office, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, dark-tanned fingers buried inside the guts of his transistor radio. He looks up and smiles as Sam approaches, the apples in his cheeks firming for a moment.

“So, how’s the baby?” the old man asks, and Sam feels his heart sink right to his toes.

“She, ah…” Sam stops in front of the old man and scuffs his shoes across the pavement, looks down and swallows hard, pain still too fresh. He doesn’t want to talk about it – not ever, really – but Siegfried’s been kind to them and… and Dean had liked him.

He clears his throat, tries to breathe around the words. “She miscarried.”

The California day is serenely, surrealistically beautiful; abnormally hot for fall, with cloudless skies and a gentle breeze, crystal clear air except for the slight warp of heat over the pavement.

“Damn, son,” Siegfried says as he rises to his feet and puts the radio down on the chair. Sam feels a hand clasp his shoulder, warm and strong. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam nods, tries to hold back the lump in his throat, eyes stinging.

“Well, come on, then,” Siegfried says, letting go of Sam.

“What?”

“We need to go get that crib outta there right now. Ain’t doing any of ya’ll any good keeping it there. Just a reminder of what you lost, now ain’t it?”

“But,” Sam’s hands twist around his books. “Dean and me, we built it, and… and…”

The old man nods, eyes filled with understanding. “I know. Dean showed it to me, the day we went and got the paint. Didn’t figure on getting rid of it,” he says, easy and comfortable as anything. “We’ll just carry it around back to storage ‘til you’re ready for it again.”

And all Sam can do is nod and be grateful and try not to lose it right here on the sidewalk in front of God and everyone.

“Okay.”

Siegfried leads until they get to the door, waits politely while Sam opens it. When they get to the small room, Sam feels the ache in his chest burn like new, and it’s not just for the baby, for what might have been, it’s just as much for what he’s afraid is never coming back.

Siegfried pauses a moment, takes a long look around the room. “He did a good job. With the painting. Crib, too.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, and it’s all he can manage. Lifts the end of the crib up under his hands and hopes the old man will hurry up and do the same so they can just be done with this.

But Siegfried’s straight across from him, now, wizened gaze staring into Sam with sympathy. “How you holding up, son?”

Sam looks away, turns as if making sure they’re going to clear the doorway. “All right.”

“I know it’s gotta be tough. Me and my wife lost a baby once, thirty years gone by, now. Never did have another. Was hard on us both.”

“Why… why didn’t you have another one?” Sam asks, looking back at the old man, not quite able to help himself.

“We moved out here a year later from Montana. Wanted to start over. So busy getting the apartments running, we just never had time, you know? Took us five years to get the business going steady, and three years after that, she was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs.

“Ain’t never been the same without her,” Siegfried says, sadness in his voice, but resignation, too. It’s an old hurt. Matter of fact and down to business, not a bit of drama, and Sam thinks maybe he can see why Dean liked this man so much.

“What you gotta know, son, is everybody dies. If you get to pick the time and place of your choosing, you’re a damned sight luckier than most, and even then, it’s always sudden.”

Sam looks up as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and Siegfried’s staring right at him. “But most don’t get to pick. You never know when it’s gonna happen. You gotta make it precious. Make it count.”

Sam sets the crib down as they reach level ground, feels his heart swell in his chest. “But she never even got a chance,” he says, voice catching in his throat.

“No,” the old man answers, takes his hands from the crib and wipes them on a handkerchief as he looks at Sam. “And it ain’t fair. Ain’t nothing in this life hardly is. But you all still got each other, yeah?”

Sam nods dumbly as Siegfried picks up the crib again, Sam’s hands moving, going through the motions as he lets the man’s words sink in. They carry the crib through the cement archway beneath the door of Sam’s apartment, turning to catch the curve of the walkway through the bushes.

“How’s your lady holding up?” the old man asks. He’s got an easy way of moving, loose limbed and stronger than his skinny arms and legs belie, and Sam can’t believe he’s having this conversation with a virtual stranger.

“Well as can be expected.”

“And Dean?” The question comes out light, but his eyes grow sharper now, and Sam wonders what he knows.

“He’s…” Sam considers lying for a split second, but he’s damned tired of lying. He hasn’t had to do much lying about anything in almost a year now, and he feels done with his old life. “He took off.”

A car roars by outside the complex, loud reverberation through the concrete, and Siegfried nods, like that’s exactly what he’d expected to hear. “If you don’t my saying so, I think he was just as excited as both of you about that baby. Maybe more.” Siegfried sets his end of the crib down as they reach the doorway behind the apartments.

“Ain’t never seen an uncle so excited,” he adds, meaningfully, catches Sam’s eye and holds it.

“Yeah.” It’s all Sam can say, the most he can manage to squeeze out.

Siegfried nods again, like Sam’s just given him some vital piece of information, and unlocks the door.

“He won’t even answer his phone,” Sam says, the words escaping him without meaning to.

Siegfried turns back and gives him a kind smile, keys dancing across his fingers. “Let him deal with his grief. Give him time, son. He’ll be back.”

Sam hopes with all his heart that it’s true.

*

They’re in bed together, clinging to each other like drowning children when Sam cradles her face in his hands, makes her look at him.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

She swallows hard against the emotion in her throat, against the emptiness in her chest, finds a way to nod, somehow.

“Me, too,” Sam whispers, and kisses her forehead.

“He’ll be back,” Sam says, but she isn’t sure she believes him. She curls into him desperately, hopes with all her heart that it’s true.

-

Dean drives the weeks away, headlights through the night, fingers tapping against the wheel. It’s been five weeks, now, and they’re starting to feel like just faces and names, like something Dean knew a long time ago, when he still knew how to feel.

The alcohol helps, paints his eyes black as night, and he doesn’t know anymore, if he’s coming or going, where he’s going to. He picks a tape at random from the floor of the car, rustling through fast food wrappers until he snares one, shoves it into the tape deck without looking and cranks the volume.

Got no time to for spreadin roots,  
The time has come to be gone.”

It’s the Zeppelin tape, the God damned one Jess made him, a year and a lifetime ago. He shoves his finger against the eject button, watches it pop out with satisfaction.

The radio blares, louder than the tape.

"Watchin the days go by  
Thinkin about the plans we made  
Days turn into years  
funny how they fade away"

He snorts, and it could be fate, but more likely it’s just happenstance, one of those things where everything reminds him, and he should have known better. The radio is clearly not his friend, he thinks as reaches for the volume knob, zooms it down. But he knows that song as well as his own name, and the words echo in his ears.

She took the last train,  
out of my heart  
She took the last train,  
and now I think I'll make a brand new start

Song’s right, like it or not. He’s got a lead on something, something big.

It’ll just have to be enough.

-

It’s three weeks before he tracks it down, finds its lair. It’s the biggest thing he’s ever taken on, and he pats the bag at his side for reassurance, making sure the blessed crossbow bolt is still there.

And he wonders, as the thing comes at him in a blur of tiger striped skin and vicious claws, how it is that a priest could be the deciding factor in this battle. Blessed crossbow bolt; the only thing that can kill it. The word and blessing of a man of God, and he doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t believe in faith or divine right, miracles.

The creature catches him across his belly, tosses him back on his ass, three lines of fire searing through skin and screaming into his brain. It’s all he can do to pull the hand crossbow from his pack, fit the arrow into it as he faces down those inhuman emerald eyes.

It opens its mouth in a roar, mocking laughter as it launches itself at him, and he presses the trigger, releases the string with a loud twang.

There’s a second – a split second – where he doesn’t know if he hit it or not. Where the thing’s still flying at him with all its furred bulk, mouth open in a savage snarl. And then it hits him, lands limp and pliant and heavy as fuck across his open wounds, and he cries out, understanding that he’s alive. He’s alive, and it’s dead, and fuck his fucking stomach hurts.

He lays there, stunned and half-conscious, mind reeling.

”Stay,” Jess says, and touches his face, and Sam kisses him, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever known.

“Don’t go,” Sam pleads, and Dean turns his face away, doesn’t want to know this, how much his brother needs him, how he needs him the same way Dean needs.

He turns away from them both, a lone figure moving against the horizon.

And then he sees her.

“Go home,” she says, tiny bow shaped lips, blue eyes and love. “Go home, Daddy.”

“But you’re not there,” he says, and that’s everything, too, maybe more than everything.

And suddenly she’s a grown woman, beautiful in his arms, miles of gossamer gown, and she clutches her hands into his shirt, looks up at him. “She was something, huh?”

“You would’ve been,” he answers.

She kisses him, soft and chaste, and he knows it’s goodbye, tries to wrap her in his arms like sand through his fingers.

“Don’t go,” he pleads, and she smiles, soft and serene.

“I’m already gone. But you’re not,” she says, hands tracing the shape of his face even as she begins to dissipate. “They’re not.”

“Go home,” she whispers.

*

It’s been nearly eight weeks since Dean left when the apartment door slams open at 4am. Dean staggers and stumbles through it, falling to the floor where Jess and Sam find him moments later, bleeding out into the carpet.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam gasps, and there’s no time for reunion, for recrimination. They both lift him, together, carry him with their shoulders to the bathroom.

It’s not quite as bad as it looks, but Dean’s laid open pretty wide, three straight lines, side by side, raked across his stomach, deep into the tissue, but not quite deep enough to pierce organs. Jess kneels before Dean in the harsh fluorescent light, cleans him with a washcloth dabbed into a bowl. The water turns a murky crimson quickly, and Jess looks to Sam, frantic.

“Not deep enough to kill him,” he reassures, pulling thread through the hook of the needle.

“But he’s bleeding so much.”

“We’ll have to stitch around it. Just hold off the flow with pressure, as much as you can.”

Dean lays nearly insensate, not even really sitting up on the toilet, body sprawled against the back of it. Mouth open, eyes closed, lips purple and skin pale, and God damn it, he doesn’t know how much blood Dean lost before he got here but they don’t have time to make a hospital run now.

“Get the whiskey,” Sam tells her.

She only hesitates a second, staring up at him in surprise from beneath thick lashes, and then she goes, gets it and brings it back.

“Hold him,” Sam says, and Jess grabs Dean by the shoulders, presses him hard against the porcelain.

Sam sets his jaw, then uncaps the whiskey and pours it over the wounds. Jess cringes when Dean cries out, and Sam leans in to help her hold him, finishes the job.

“Jesus fuck,” Dean grates, moved to consciousness for the first time. “What the hell, Sam?”

There’s blood all over the tiles, specks and spatters and trails, too much of it, and all of it is Dean’s, still trickling out in steady streams from his abdomen. Sam can’t handle this, too, on top of that.

“Shut up, Dean,” he hisses, shakes his brother once and leaves him there against the back of the toilet.

“Wipe,” he commands Jess, and she does, leaving a clean expanse of skin for a few seconds. “Hold him.”

Sam pushes the needle through Dean’s skin and Dean makes a loud keening sound.

“Jesus Christ. Put a rag in his mouth, Jess.”

Jess stares at him for a split second, and he thinks he’s going to have to repeat himself, but then she reaches for the soft, blue washcloth on the shelf above their heads, kisses Dean and shushes him, slides it between his lips.

Dean bites down hard, finally with the program, and Sam pulls the needle through the other side of skin, feels Dean tense underneath him.

“Just hang on,” Sam tells him.

*

It takes a steady hour of stitching and Dean passes out before it’s over, going limp. It’s almost a relief to Sam, to be able to finish without watching his brother stiffening, hearing him groan.

After it’s done, Sam walks Jess through dressing the wound, bandages applied with care, and finally, finally they each get him under a shoulder and carry him to the bedroom. They get him on the bed and arrange him comfortably. Curl up on either side of him without quite touching him, except for Sam’s hand on Dean’s arm, Jess’s hand on Dean’s cheek.

They stare at each other across Dean’s steady, even breathing, and wait.

*

Dean sleeps for almost 24 hours before he wakes up again. Sam tips a water bottle to his mouth and Jess goes to warm up some soup. She spoon feeds him like an infant and he hates it—except that it’s kinda nice, really—trying hard not to shift around with impatience. His stomach feels like it’s on fire, skin abnormally tight, and just breathing puts strain on the stitches holding him together.

“What was it, Dean?” Sam asks, after the soup’s gone and the water bottle is empty.

“Raksasha,” Dean grunts. “Nasty fucker.”

“You scared the shit out of us,” Jess says, leaning over him, golden blond hair brushing against his chest, and God she’s beautiful. And Dean’s never gonna be thinking of his brother as beautiful—fucking or not, some gay lines Dean doesn’t cross—but it sure as fuck is good to see them both.

Sam holds it together for a couple minutes more while Dean explains what happened, and then finally, predictably, explodes.

“Are you trying to get killed, or what, Dean? Jesus Christ! You know better than to take on one of those things alone.” Sam takes a breath, tries to calm himself as Dean watches on. “You should’ve called me,” he finally says.

“Would you have come?”

“Of course!” The answer is immediate, no thought, no hesitation, and Dean takes a second to appreciate just how much things have changed in the last year.

“We both would’ve,” Jess adds.

Dean takes that in, purses his lips and nods. “Okay.” It’s the only outward expression he can give them right now for what that means, and the closest he’s ever getting to an apology.

“Okay.”

*

He sleeps for six more hours and when he wakes up again, Sam and Jess are still there, pressed up against each side of him, careful not to touch his wounds. Sam’s asleep but Jess’s eyes are open, sleepy and slow-blinking as she looks at him and for a second he feels panicked, like he wants to run.

“We missed you.” It’s all she says, and he hears all the emotions underneath those words; anger, fear, love. Feels them hit hard against his chest like cracking him open, heart exposed and stuttering. And God damn it, he can’t do this, can’t lose it here in front of her like this.

“I can’t,” he starts to say, chokes out the words. He tries to push from the bed and his body seizes, tightens, fire ripping through his midsection and aching up through his chest. He hisses in a breath against the pain, and Jess grabs him, arms tight around his shoulders, pulls him back with her weight.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, breathing hard, and he can feel her, muscles tense against his side, hear the muted anger in her voice, and he doesn’t quite manage to look at her.

“Don’t you dare leave, again,” she says, voice shaking, and he sighs, relaxes into her embrace, turns his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

“I thought I found it, you know,” he says, voice rough and low. “Found a place where I could… and I got caught up in it.” He takes a breath, shakes his head, opens his eyes and tries to shake off the mood. “But it isn’t my life. I don’t belong here.”

“Damn it, Dean. Do you think you’re the only one who lost something? Not only did we lose the baby, but me and Sam lost you, too.” He starts to pull away from her again, and she grabs his face between her hands, holds him there. “Nothing’s changed,” she says, staring him down. Her eyes are wide and tender, somehow fierce. “Me and Sam still love you, still want you.”

He shuts his eyes and she shakes him once, hard. His eyes snap open in surprise and her expression hasn’t changed a bit.

“We love you, Dean. I love you. Sam loves you. And we know you love us, too.”

It’s all he can do to make himself nod.

“Stay,” she says, sketching lines across his cheekbones with her thumbs.

He does.

*

It’s four hours later when he wakes up again, and this time Sam and Jess are awake, watching cartoons. Sam’s sitting cross legged at the end of the bed on one side in his boxers, Jess in her pajamas in the same position on the other side.

“It’s actually a really sad tale of unrequited love,” Sam is saying, and Jess giggles. Dean squints and Tom and Jerry skitter across the screen, Tom with a giant hammer in his hands, Jerry laughing over his shoulder. “I mean, it’s classic.”

“Are you sure it’s unrequited?” Jess asks.

“Jerry leads him on, taunting and teasing, giggling and making come hither eyes, and Tom can’t resist, and Jerry knows it. So he leads him on this wild goose chase through the house, the neighbor’s yards, wrecks Tom’s entire life, then leaves him flattened and laughs,” Sam says. “It’s all metaphor.”

“Using gay cross-species love to demonstrate it?” Jess asks skeptically, arching a brow and grinning.

“Okay,” Sam says and straightens his spine, head lolling back as he stares Jess down with his full attention, rising to the challenge. “A lot of the 1950’s cartoons and books used metaphors to represent gay love, and took it a step further by using stuffed animal and humans, or one animal species with another to show the alienation they feel.”

“Who laced your Fruit Loops?” Dean asks, throat dry.

Sam’s face lights up as he turns to look at Dean. “Hey,” he says, voice soft.

“Is this what you guys talk about when I’m not here? Because seriously, I’m glad you’ve been sparing me,” Dean grouses.

“Oh, he’s only saying that ‘cause it’s true,” Jess says to Sam, waving a hand as if to dismiss Dean, and God, it’s like he never left. Like the last two months never happened.

Sam hands him a bottle of water and asks, “You hungry?”

*

Jess waits until after they’ve all finished their cereal and eggs, eating off trays, spread out on the striped coverlet around Dean. Sam and Dean are bickering over the particulars of Ren and Stimpy’s relationship, Dean passionately arguing how he is so Ren to Sam’s Stimpy, and definitely not the other way around.

Jess grabs the remote and sits up, leans back alongside Dean, nestled between her and Sam’s bodies. She turns down the volume and tosses the remote away, her heart trip hammering in her chest. “Hey guys,” she says, and turns on her side, slides one hand around Dean’s neck, the other around Sam’s shoulder.

She’s got their attention, rapt and vaguely worried as they look at her, and God, she wouldn’t trade, not for anything in the world. All this love.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. Stops, clears her throat. Forces herself to meet their eyes. “I know we only talked about it a little. And I know we could wait—probably should wait until school is done. But…” She hesitates, pulling her lower lip between her teeth.

“I think I…” she begins, pleading with Sam. Then she turns her eyes to Dean and hopes with all her heart that they’ll both understand. She tightens her hand in Sam’s shoulder, clutches her fingers around curve of Dean’s neck.

“I don’t want to wait. And I want you to stay, Dean. I don’t want you to go away anymore. Neither one of us does.”

Dean’s eyes go wide for a second, full of hope and surprise and a dozen other things that make her heart swell. And then he turns his head away, and she can see the pain in him. “Don’t, Jess. Don’t do it for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you, Dean,” she says. “I’m doing it for me. For all of us.”

“We were gonna do it before, anyway, Dean,” Sam says, his voice hoarse, but his eyes meet Jess’s and hold, warm and loving for a second before he looks at Dean. He takes his brother’s hand, cups Dean’s cheek and makes his brother look at him.

“None of it means anything without you,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes flutter against the words, try to close. And then he clears his throat, looks back at Sam, then over at Jess, as if asking if she agrees. She nods once, slow, and leans to kiss him, and he yanks Sam into it with them, all three of their tongues tangling together.

They kiss like they’re dying, like they’re gasping for air, taking turns and sharing, and Dean’s the most desperate of them all, kissing them both like he can’t get enough.

And it’s not okay. It’s not all right, it’s not all better, but it’s then that she thinks maybe it will be.

-

It’s eight days later, and she’s sitting on the dining room floor, dirt scattered around her as she gently lifts the oregano plant, settles it into fresh dirt in a new pot. It’s gotten big, so big now, and it needs more room to grow.

She pats down the dirt around its base—not too tight—and lifts out the leaves, lets them drape naturally.

Sam’s sitting on the couch, stacks of notes all around him, eraser caught between his teeth as he considers his laptop, and the sun shines through the dining room window, elongated square of light encasing her. The air is warm, and the scent of chicken pot pie wafts from the oven, slow cooking to perfection toward dinner time.

She’s got the radio on, bouncing beat, strains of guitar and rhythmic lyrics, and Sam’s tapping his foot along to the sound.

_”When you reach the bottom line_   
_The only thing to do is climb_   
_Pick yourself up off the floor_   
_Anything you want is yours”_

The apartment door swings open, booted feet, soft against the grain of carpet, long strides until they stand before her, black and scuffed. She wants more than anything to reach out, to stand up and hug him, but it’s his choice, has to be his choice, and she won’t push. It’s been eight days –eight amazing, wonderful days—and today is the first day he’s been able to leave the apartment, his wounds nearly healed.

Today is the first day he’s had a real choice.

“So,” Dean says, crouching down in front of her. Elbows across his knees as he tilts his head to look at her, and there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, a light in his eyes, spark like she hasn’t seen in far too long. He’s here, real and solid like he never left, like he’s never leaving again.

His eyes crinkle and she watches that hint of a smile grow to full bloom. “Ziggy tells me the crib’s in storage out back.”

She nods, looking up at him, not sure where he’s going with this.

“And I was thinking, maybe we should all get started filling it as soon as possible.” He inclines his head a little further to the side in an endearing half-shrug. “Don’t wanna be taking up the man’s space, after all.” He says it like it’s the least important thing in the world—that’s how she knows it’s the most important.

Sam’s footsteps, lighter, skin to carpet, and he pads around them, moves up behind Dean and wraps his arms around his brother’s shoulders.

“Sounds good to me,” he says, words murmured into the curve of Dean’s neck.

Dean brushes his cheek against Sam’s arms around him, then rolls his eyes back at Sam as if to say to Jess, “look at this schmuck”. He shares a grin with her, then looks at her, steady and sharp.

“So, what do you say?”

She looks down, and thinks this is it--this is where it all comes together, where it all stops and starts and never ends. She puts her fingers on the rim of the planter, slides the pot aside, careful with her movements. She takes a moment to draw a breath -- to straighten her spine and appreciate this -- then raises her eyes to him.

The music plays in the background like a soundtrack, and she can’t help but grin.

_“I’m gonna take you to, I'm gonna take you to part two, part two…”_

“Yes,” she says. Rises up on her knees and throws her arms around them both, kisses Dean’s mouth until he’s breathless, then presses her mouth to Sam’s before she pulls back and looks at both of them.

“I say yes.”

FINIS


End file.
